


Moving Day

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hair Pulling, Hand Job, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Reverse Cowgirl, Rough Sex, Spit Roast, Threesome, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, cream pies, jokes about Catholicism, light choking (hands go around reader's neck but there's no breathplay), no actual fuck or die but the trope is discussed, sexual banter, soft!dom Santiago, submissive but rowdy Frankie, the boys are bisexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: There is absolutely nothing enjoyable about moving. It’s sweaty, it’s stressful, it’s tiring.If you’re lucky, you can afford to hire movers. If you’re really lucky, you have friends to help shoulder the burden, to tote boxes from home to truck to home again in exchange for nothing more than beer and food. You happen to be extremely lucky—you have a crew of strapping not-quite-young men who not only would but had taken bullets for you, and you had them on standby. Without hesitation, they had descended on your shitty downtown apartment at oh-seven-hundred on little more than the promise of thick black coffee to help you move everything to a quiet bungalow just inside the city limits.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 90





	Moving Day

There is absolutely nothing enjoyable about moving. It’s sweaty, it’s stressful, it’s tiring. 

If you’re lucky, you can afford to hire movers. If you’re really lucky, you have friends to help shoulder the burden, to tote boxes from home to truck to home again in exchange for nothing more than beer and food. You happen to be extremely lucky—you have a crew of strapping not-quite-young men who not only would but _had_ taken bullets for you, and you had them on standby. Without hesitation, they had descended on your shitty downtown apartment at oh-seven-hundred on little more than the promise of thick black coffee to help you move everything to a quiet bungalow just inside the city limits.

Tom put in a few hours of help in the morning but had to step out at noon for a showing. As he’s leaving you thank him again for thinking of you with this place. He probably could have turned a bigger—or _any_ —profit on it. He shrugs, uncomfortable in the bright spotlight of gratitude, plants a kiss on your cheek, and bows out. Benny has to save his strength for a fight, so he’s not much more than moral support, but the Miller boys stick around as long as they can, directing and redirecting boxes, unloading essentials and making sure everyone stays hydrated. 

Ultimately, as the sun sets over the Rockies, only Santiago and Frankie linger to help unpack and devour the obscene amount of takeout you had ordered before you realized you were only feeding three former soldiers, not six. 

Frankie sits cross-legged on the living room floor, fumbling with a gnarled mess of wires. Despite your best intentions and an absurd number of twist ties, the once-orderly pile of cords managed to knit itself into a twisted demonstration of entropy unfurling over the mere seven miles the truck traveled to reach your new home.

Santiago crouches over a small box of books as you return to the sitting room, your fingers wrapped around the necks of three bottles of chilled beer. He reaches into the box to pull out a handful of books and arranges them on the shelves next to him according to your vague directions. When he turns back to grab more, his face transforms, a cheeky grin creeping across his features. He darts his hand into the box and produces a worn paperback, picked up from some library basement second-hand sale for fifty cents. The pages are dog-eared and yellowed, and had been when you bought it. Across the cover, two soldiers—a man and a woman—are locked eternally in an indecent embrace. He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Woman’s got needs,” you shrug. You could give into the burning heat rising in your face, but you know these men. Give them the slightest opening and they’ll wheedle their way under your skin until you need pincers to pry them out. “I know you guys just _think_ the word ‘spec-ops’ and you’re drowning in pussy, but _First Woman to make Delta Force_ doesn’t exactly bring in a parade of suitors.”

“Cowards,” Frankie chimes in from the floor, and you salute him with the bottle opener in your hand with a click of your tongue.

“Jessamyn O'Rourke never thought she’d be in this situation,” Pope reads from the back cover with exaggerated affectation. “Hers was a life sworn to uphold duty and honor. But when the feisty sergeant and her dour platoon mate Corporal Michael Ivanov get caught in a chemical attack, they are the lone survivors of a weaponized aphrodisiac that induces uncontrollable desire. This lust must be regularly satiated else the victim risks permanent brain damage or,” he gasps theatrically, “even death! 

“Can the plucky soldier and her emergency paramour find an emotional connection, or will the trauma of—” he interrupts himself with a shake of his entire body. “ _Jesus_ , Boss, you read this shit?”

“Go fuck yourself, Pope,” you roll your eyes as you crack open three beers and cross the room to hand one of the sweating bottles to Frankie. 

“Oh, that’s a thought though?” Santiago starts leafing through the pages, stopping every once in a while to raise an eyebrow or blink in shock at a passage that catches his eye. “Is there a narrative explanation for why masturbation is not a viable solution?”

You pause a moment, leaning back against the barren shelves, trying to remember the details of that particular story. “Yes.”

“Of course,” he chuckles. “Good thing weapons like that don’t exist in real life, huh?

“Yeah, no kidding.”

You shove another one of the bottles into Santiago’s hands and snatch the book from his hands. You find a place for it on the bookshelf next to the rest of your mass market paperbacks. 

“So, who would it be?” Santiago asks, cavalierly, taking a draw of beer like that’s a normal question to ask. “Say we’re all back there in the desert, yeah? Like old times. We get hit by an IED. But _oh, no_ —It isn’t an IED at all. It’s a—” he taps the spine of the romance novel you just snatched from his hands over your shoulder “— _weaponized aphrodisiac_. 

Frankie buries his face behind the brim of his hat, his hands shaking as he threads one end of an HDMI cable through a series of tangled loops.

You narrow your eyes at Pope as he licks his lips and scans his eyes up and down your body. It’s not arrogance to say that you can anticipate his answer—you spar with the man regularly, have gone to the mats with him in a breathless grapple, limbs twisting and straining to capture and control. You’ve felt his cock twitch against you more than once as he pins you. It’s physical, and you don’t mention it when you tap out; say nothing about the way he won’t look you in the eyes for a few minutes afterward. You can’t fault him, not really—not when some deep part of you is tempted to fail to tap, to submit yourself to your assailant’s desire and become the world’s most willing victim. 

“Me?” Santiago starts, a conspiratorial smile spreads across his face. “I’d pick Redfly.” 

You nearly spray your beer across your new carpet. Frankie’s head snaps back so fast his cap almost flies off. 

“What.” 

“ _What!?_ ”

“Yeah,” Pope doubles down with a grin. “He’s got that repressed Irish Catholic boy energy. Bet he’s straight _nasty_ in the sack.” 

“I would like to forget you said that.” 

“Man, _you’re_ Catholic,” Frankie points out, finally freeing a cord from the tangle and leaning around the massive screen of your television. Pope rounds on him with a raised eyebrow.

“You sayin’ you don’t think I’m nasty in the sack?”

Frankie chuckles, “I would never say that.” 

“What about you, man?” Pope kicks the bottom of Frankie’s foot. “Who would you pick?” 

Frankie’s head snaps up and his gaze snaps to you, panicked, and his answer shoots through you like lightning. The facts of it aren’t surprising. You’re not stupid. You’d have to be naïve to think none of the guys have ever thought about you like that. It’s natural—you were all close, but they hadn’t ever made you uncomfortable, and that’s what mattered. 

But Frankie’s response… It’s more than that, and you see it now. It’s so obvious that it almost hurts. All those times on the dance floor when his hands lingered a little longer on your hips, a little lower than entirely necessary but never past the bounds of propriety. The bar tabs he covered for you because his wallet was more easily accessible than yours. How he sits now, curled up on the carpet of your living room after twelve hours of heavy lifting, putting together your entertainment system exactly the way he knows you prefer it. He doesn’t have to say anything. He looks down at his hands, voice soft and embarrassed, “—don’t, please.” 

“I guess that answers that question,” Santiago rounds on you, a toothy grin across his face, eyes wide and expectant. “And you sweetheart…?”

“Pope—” Frankie protests, but Santiago cuts him off. 

“She’s a big girl, Catfish. If she don’t wanna answer, she can tell me herself.”

Adrenaline does funny things to the mind in the heat of battle, and you’d be lying if you said that you hadn’t thought about taking most of them to bed at least once. Hunkered down behind a brick wall, shoulder to shoulder with Will breathing heavy and terrified as bullets whiz above you; silly girlish butterflies flitting in your stomach when Benny blows you a kiss for dropping a combatant on his six; commandeering the driver’s seat from Santiago, bodies curling around each other in the tight space above the gear shift as you take control of the humvee, or sweeping a house with Frankie, easy as dancing, breaking left as he goes right, moving in practiced tandem. 

To save their lives? Any of them; they’re your boys. 

To save your own?

“I don’t know, Pope,” you sigh. “Probably one of you two chucklefucks.”

“Cop out,” he accuses, poking you in the chest with two fingers, just below the hollow of your throat. “Gun to your head, Boss. Fuck or die.” 

You’ve had enough of his game, and your eyes flash daggers as you look at him. You couldn’t decide if your life depended on it.

And there’s your answer. 

“Do I have to choose?” 

Frankie picks his head back up again. “Pope—”

“Alright, alright, you guys are no fun.” Santiago holds his hands up in surrender.

“No, Pope, you’re not listening.” You look down at Frankie and make hard eye contact with him, then turn your head back to Santiago. “In this game you’re playing right now, _do I have to choose_?” 

The words detonate in the space between your bodies, a shockwave of silence emanating out from you, charging the crackling atmosphere of the house like flipping a breaker switch. This is your space, _your_ home, and you had just pulled the pin on a grenade, extended your hand between them, fingers clutching the safety lever tight, waiting for permission to let go. Both men stare at you in gobsmacked silence, mouths hanging wide open. Pope breaks first, a sly grin spreading across his face. 

“Not on my account.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Frankie asks, scrambling to his feet. “I’d take you however I can get you.”

His hands wrap around your face, warm and comforting as he crashes his lips into yours, dark and insistent and desperate as his tongue begs your mouth for entrance. He breathes you in, moaning into you as though he’s pouring years of missed opportunities into you. 

Santiago sidles up next to the pair of you and swats Frankie’s hat off his head by the brim. Frankie doesn’t even protest as it clatters to the floor, joining the abandoned tangle of wires at his feet. Frankie breaks away from your mouth to let Pope cut in, and Santiago’s mouth lands against yours soft and slow, not quite hesitant, but gentle in a way that Frankie’s violent surge hadn’t been. Pope breaks the kiss and reaches up to cup his hands around the back of both of your heads, fingers toying with the soft curls at the nape of Frankie’s neck. 

“Are we doing this?” Pope’s face floods with glee, eyes darting between the pair of you. 

You don’t say anything—your position is clear. Santiago laid the charges, you lit the match; it’s up to Catfish to cut the fuse if he’s unsure.

“ _Hell yeah_.”

Frankie reaches for you, groping at your waist, your arms, your ass as he presses you backwards toward your new bedroom. You hear a slap, a yelp, and wait for the sharp sting of pain to bloom a reddened handprint on your ass. Instead, Frankie jumps in surprise and Santiago’s laughter fills your home as three bodies spill into the room at the end of the hall. Boxes of clothes and knickknacks still line the walls, but thankfully you had the foresight to put together the bed first thing this morning. 

You spin, an attempt to steal the lead the instant your foot passes through the threshold. You pivot on your toes and shove the first body you see back toward the mattress. Frankie stumbles the last few steps, tumbling back onto your comforter, his knees spread as though your body was designed to slot perfectly between them. While you were busy plotting your coup, Santiago had managed to strip away the worn cotton of Frankie’s tee-shirt, so now he sits in front of you on the bed, shirtless and breathing heavy. Your mouth waters at the sight of him; muscular and broad with a pillow of softness on top, his belly poking just barely over his belt. 

“There are three extremely sexy people in this room and entirely too many items of clothing among us,” Pope observes as he tugs away his own shirt and saddles up behind you, drawing the hem of your tee over your head. Frankie’s hands gravitate immediately toward you as Santiago unfastens the latch of your bra with an expert flick of his fingers. The thin fabric falls away before Frankie’s hands reach you, grasping at your breasts, warm and inviting. 

They’re everywhere. Frankie at your chest as Santiago steps even closer to you, skimming his palms down your sides and huffing a smug exhale into your neck when you shudder between them. His hands snake down to the belt around your waist and unlatch the buckle. He mouths at your neck, grinding against your ass, then peels the tight denim down your legs until you’re standing stark naked between these two men, your best friends in the world.

It’s nothing they haven’t seen in parts and pieces—bandaging wounds, a quick change mid-mission, or an accidental slip while camping—but this time it’s different. 

This time they’re allowed. 

Frankie’s jaw drops, his eyes blown black as coal and scorching twice as hot across your skin. Behind you, Santiago drops his chin onto your shoulder, hooking one arm just below your breasts, trailing the other hand down your stomach to rest between your legs. You buck against him, instinctual and searching for more pressure, but he holds you steady as he looks down at Frankie. 

“Take your pants off and lay back.” 

There’s something new in Santiago’s voice. A command, but not an order. The kind that Frankie could disobey without consequence or pushback and Pope would forge on without missing a beat. It’s experimental. The edges of this relationship haven’t been explored, and this is a start, a slow push at the boundaries of a new arrangement, an attempt to establish the rules of the game. 

Frankie’s hands fumble at the buckle of his belt and shove his pants down his legs, throwing himself back onto the bed without a second thought. Santiago’s lips curl into a smile against the soft skin of your neck as he places an open mouthed kiss against the sensitive skin at your jugular. 

“Get on top of him, sweetheart. Hands and knees,” his voice rumbles through you, dark and insistent, and you find yourself no more rebellious than Frankie as Pope presses the span of his hand across your back toward the mattress. “I’ll take care of the details.” 

You clamber onto the mattress, your hands landing on either side of Frankie’s head, knees nestled on either side of his hips. His mouth works silently as he stares up at you, letting his eyes drift downward to your tits dangling between you then back up to your face like he’s not sure he’s allowed to look. You smile down at him, press a soft kiss of permission to his lips and pull back to watch him. Like a moth to flame, he’s drawn to your chest, his hands skimming up your sides and settling to cup your breasts from beneath, squeezing, ticking the nail of his thumbs over your nipples, mouth dropping open as you jerk above him. 

Santiago climbs up on the bed too, his clothes shed and abandoned next to yours on the floor. The mattress dips as he kneels next to you, his hand sliding down your back to settle heavy above your tailbone. 

Your head drops as two fingers of his free hand slide through your folds, slick and easy, drawing a tight circle around your clit. Your body jolts at the contact. Beneath you, Frankie groans when your tits bounce in his grasp, massaging and squeezing, a dull raw pressure as the razor edge of Pope’s fingers slices back toward your entrance. 

Beneath you, Frankie squeezes and paws at you as you shiver in his grasp when Santiago dips back to your core, collecting the wetness dripping between your legs. Your chin drops to your chest as Pope’s fingers push into you and curl, thick and delicious as he presses you open. 

One of Frankie’s hands leaves your breasts and you whine from the lack of contact, even as you grind back against Pope’s fingers, lewd and shameless. Frankie knocks your chin back up, a silent request for eye contact as Pope works you, his slow strokes exploring the hidden corners of your cunt, crooked fingers stroking sweet and soft within you. 

Then his hand is gone and he shifts again next to both of you. You expect a heavy pressure against your core; brace yourself for Pope to shove himself into you, yank you away from Frankie with a grunt. Maybe even a sharp crack of a palm against your ass. Instead, Frankie jerks beneath you, a sharp groan bursting from his chest. You gasp and look down just in time to see Frankie thrust up into Santiago’s hand. Santiago winks at you, sliding back down Frankie’s length and twisting at the base. Frankie arches up against you, his eyes slammed shut, head thrown back with a moan. 

“Wow,” you manage thickly, staring wide eyed at the cords of muscle straining in his neck. You can’t help but reach for him, run your hands over the taut skin beneath you. Pope leans over your shoulder, a kiss against your shoulder as he watches Frankie writhe under you, humming his agreement into the skin there as he lets the hand against your back dance up your spine. 

“Incredible.” 

Suddenly his hand fists at the back of your head and pulls, dragging you up and away from Frankie, a tight pressure swelling in your scalp just past the point of comfort. You’re not sure exactly whether it’s the pain or the loss of Frankie’s warmth that makes you cry out—maybe it’s both. Frankie groans as Santiago drags you up your own bed as if he were laying claim to anything and everything he could put his hands on.

Santiago lounges back against the pile of pillows at your headboard. Your mouth falls open as he tugs you down, spine bowing back as he guides you onto his lap, arranging you across his thighs, facing Frankie. 

“Stop.” Pope snaps his fingers, reaching around your body and holding up a finger as Frankie starts crawling up the mattress after you. Frankie freezes, sitting back on his heels. “Hands on your knees, Francisco. Be a good boy.” 

“I’ll _kill_ you,” Frankie snarls. 

Santiago crunches his stomach and leans to look around you, his cock rubbing against your ass as he fixes Frankie with a stare. He’s not smiling, but a playful challenge dances in his eyes. 

“Try it.” 

A whine leaves Frankie’s throat and his cock twitches between his legs, a bead of pre-cum pulsing from the tip, but he obeys, fisting his hands into the flesh of his knees. 

“That’s what I thought.” Santiago’s voice rolls through the space between you, smug and satisfied, curling around you like wisps of smoke. He tugs your head back, ratcheting up the tension as he rumbles into your ear. “Let’s put on a little show for our sweet boy here, what do you think?” 

He pushes you forward until you have to brace yourself against his thighs, your hands wrapping just above his knees, your fingers swiping over a long gash of gnarled scar tissue left over from one of many surgeries. He runs his thumbs down along your spine, down your ass and hooks them through your folds, pressing slightly into you. You inhale in anticipation as he separates his thumbs and presses deeper. You shudder at the sudden shock of cool air, clamping down around nothing but the very tips of his fingers. He moans behind you, shifting you above him until he can nudge the tip of his cock against your entrance, his hands curled around your hips, tight as a vice. 

“Still want this, honey?”

“Santiago, _please_ ,” you whine, grinding back on him as much as his iron grip will allow.

“Good enough.” 

He yanks you toward himself, impaling you on his dick in one harsh motion. The noise that explodes from your chest is pure animal, a cry of shock as he splits you open, burying himself to the hilt inside you. Pleasure pierces through you like lightning, crackling down your limbs and dancing among your fingertips. Frankie’s jaw drops and he twitches as though to reach out to you, then freezes, eyes darting between you and Pope, orders still fresh in his mind. Behind you, Pope lounges half-upright against the pile of pillows at the head of your bed, allowing you a small reprieve as his fingers run the length of your back. They settle at your hips and tug, gentle instruction guiding you to a rhythm, rising and falling on top of him.

It’s like sparring, grappling with a different goal, a mutual hold, negotiated without words, letting your bodies unfold and crash together instead of fighting for control. His heat is oddly familiar against yours, finally divested of the thin fabric of your workout clothes. Instead of resisting a hold, rolling him on the mat, escaping a pin before he can lock you, you both submit easily to the flow of it.

His hands return to roaming your body, one settling solid at the base of your neck, the other dancing up and down your back, groping at your ass, reaching around to grab your tits. You roll yourself against him as he surges up to meet you best he can beneath you. He gives you the freedom to lead, to shift, to control the pace and the tempo as you use him to search yourself for that spot within that lights up sparks behind your eyes. You find it quickly, planting your hands behind you and biting your lip against the smile threatening to split your face.

You’re exposed, two pairs of heated eyes raking over you without mercy, watching you ride Santiago’s dick as though you’re something otherworldly, celestial. You can’t see Santiago, but you’ve always been able to sense his sharp gaze on you. In front of you, Frankie _burns_ , his tongue darting out to lick his lips as his hands shake in his lap. It’s mortifying and intoxicating in equal measure. You couldn’t stop if the world were on fire. 

Then Frankie’s looking you dead in the eyes, his expression wide and wild as his lips fold around a silent prayer— _please, please, please_. Your entire life turns on a dime—there’s no coming back from this—sharp and instant like a fuse igniting, the crackling spark of it sinking deeper and deeper into your belly. Santiago squeezes the hand at your collar in encouragement. 

“Let him watch you come honey, he’s been so good.” 

Violent ecstasy crashes through you, a blast of blistering pleasure erupting in every last corner of your body, your mind, your past, your present, converging on a single point in space and time, then furling back out through the universe, crafting a brand new world in the fallout—

—a world where you just fucked one of your best friends while the other watches you fall apart.

Frankie’s lost, his face conflicted and desperate, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen this expression twist his handsome features. It comes to you in flashes; in the strobing lights of a morphing dance floor, as the music pulses from an upbeat salsa to something with an absolutely sinful baseline; at last call, when the five of you stumble out to the cab, you nestling onto his lap because even with Pope in the front seat there’s not enough room in the back for all of you; in the soft glow of a dwindling campfire along the Appalachian Trail, a quiet retreat shared with him after the clusterfuck chaos of your final deployment. 

“Frankie? Tell this nice lady what you want and we’ll decide if you’ve earned it.”

If the memories you conjured tugged at your heartstrings, swelling your heart with the slow syrupy thickness of some feelings you haven’t quite identified, his words drag you the other direction. They cascade from his mouth like a valve suddenly opened, pressured then tapering off into a steady stream as his eyes bore deep into yours. 

“I want to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. I want you warm and writhing on my dick. I want to hear those filthy fucking noises you make and know that they’re _mine_. I want to crawl inside you and never leave; come so deep you can never scrub me out of you.”

Santiago freezes, sitting up straight and wrapping his arms heavy around you, pinning your arms to your sides. You wiggle against his hold, searching wildly for any sort of friction. Instead of helping, Santiago’s arms clamp down on your hips, holding you against him, immobile as he tucks his chin around your shoulder. 

“I want you desperate and begging for me, baby. I want to wrap my hands around that gorgeous throat and fuck that beautiful brilliant brain right out of your skull. Make you feel so goddamn good; come so fucking hard you can’t think, then make you do it again and again _and again_.”

“Frankie—” you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice.

Santiago whistles, low and shocked. 

“I wish you could feel how wet she just got. Actually, hang on.” 

He trails his hand down your stomach and between your legs, his fingers blunt and probing against your entrance and your hand darts down to catch his wrist, breathing ragged as you realize what he’s about to do. He presses, insistent, two fingers joining his dick inside you and curling, and you thrash with the impossible stretch of it as he strums the sensitive insides of you.

Santiago chuckles low and dark, nibbling at the sensitive flesh behind your ear. “You’re seeing the same thing I’m seeing, right honey? You can’t take this, how do you think you’re gonna be able to handle our boy here?” 

He withdraws his hand from you, fingers coated in a layer of slick. Before you can even reach for him, or say a word, Frankie dives down to take Santiago’s fingers into his mouth as far as they can go. His eyes never leave your face, and you can practically feel the moan reverberate up Pope’s arm and through your body as he circles Santiago’s fingers with his tongue. Beneath you, Pope breaks, hips rocking, throbbing inside you. 

“Well, shit,” Pope exhales into your ear. “Did he convince you too honey?” 

“Santi,” you whine, throwing your head back against his shoulder. “Please—I need him.”

“I know sweetheart, hang on.” 

He shifts behind you, rearranging himself so that he no longer needs the headboard for leverage, and nudges you forward toward Frankie. 

Frankie reaches for you, hands trembling to pull you into a kiss, but you dive past him, take him in your mouth, and he cries out with the shock of it. His hand lands against the back of your head as you push yourself as far down onto his cock as you can bear. These are your boys, and you’ll take as much of them as you can. 

It takes some time for you and Santiago to work out a rhythm that works, the introduction of a third element throwing off your choreography as you fumble for the thrumming beat of your modified dance for three. You furl between the two men, a dizzying whirl of sensation cutting up into you, another heavy in your mouth, finding their different styles, somehow new and familiar at the same time. Pope is fluid and precise, rocking into you with the precision of a soldier, of a fighter, of an artist, as though he knows exactly what your body can do and what it can take. On the other hand, Frankie is raw, honest, vibrating with instinct as his hands card through your hair, tangling handfuls against your scalp, gentle abortive thrusts like he’s trying to control himself but can’t quite manage it.

He throbs in your mouth, and you chase it, ignoring how your throat screams to reject him as Santi’s thrust forces you further onto Frankie than you anticipated. You hollow your lips and groan around him, somewhere between a moan and a laugh as Frankie’s body begins to convulse under you. 

Instead, his hands curl soft under your chin and lift you up, gently guiding your face level with his. You whine in protest, knowing that an utterly pathetic expression must be washing over you as you sob into him, but he clenches his teeth and presses his forehead to yours. 

“No, stop—Wanna be inside you, sweetheart.”

“You _were_ ,” you gasp, fixing him with wide uncomprehending eyes. Frankie can only groan, lips crashing to yours in heated relief, a sob escaping his throat, or maybe from yours, as his hands curl around your face. 

“Your cunt, honey,” Santiago grits through his teeth from somewhere behind you. “He wants to fuck this perfect cunt. Can’t blame him. You’re gonna lose your goddamn mind, man.” 

He thrusts up into you, sharp and fierce, any lingering caution he may have reserved when your mouth was occupied now thrown to the howling wind as he searches for his release inside your body. You scramble at Frankie’s chest as you bury your face into his shoulder. He smells like soap and sweat, a slick layer of desperation and sandalwood as you mouth at the skin of his neck.

Behind you, Santiago is merciless, rolling into you with devastating precision, working you, taking you apart and putting you back together like you’re his trusty service pistol, locked and loaded, bullet in the chamber, safety off and thrown into the furious chaos of battle, itching to fire, _fire, fire_.

You barely recognize the squeak of your voice as you beg, “Frankie, _help me_.” 

Frankie reaches down between your legs, a gentle swipe of his fingers over your clit and you’re _done_ , heat ripping through your entire body as he presses his lips to yours. You seize and shudder in his arms and he swallows every moan, every cry, like he’s trying to drink you down, to fill himself with the vibration of you. 

Santiago comes with a shout, reaches up, grabs your shoulder and tugs you away from Frankie, squeezing you flush to his chest as he catches his breath beneath you. His voice is low in your ear.

“You still want him, honey?” 

Frankie’s face is twisted into a terrified grimace, as though he’s afraid you’ll reject him now that Pope has had his way with you. Your chest swells with the desire to reach out to him, to smooth the lines of worry digging into his features. Your heart breaks. The corners of your mouth twitch up and your eyebrows raise, pleading and pathetic, as you nod plaintively in Pope’s arms. “ _Yes_.” 

“She’s all yours.” 

Frankie surges forward, the hand at your cheek shifting firmly and landing around your throat as he advances, a vicious assault against your mouth as he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss. He pushes you off Pope’s dick and throws you back into the sheets. You barely have enough time to register Santiago’s release leaking down your thighs before Frankie thrusts inside you, a battering ram stretching you open further than you ever thought possible, burrowing so deep that you swear you can feel him in your throat.

There’s no time to adjust, no recovery possible as his forearms press against your shoulders, pinning your entire torso into the mattress. Your survival instincts are thick and slow to come online, a weak grip on his wrists that you can’t bring yourself to tighten and pry away. Frankie has you three steps beyond any hold you ever let Pope get on you. You’re pinned beneath an elite soldier, the best of the best, a warrior who has just been teased, provoked, and tortured, a man whose patience has finally been given permission to fail after… you couldn’t even guess at how long. 

He’s everywhere, consuming everything, body large and imposing above you—a sledgehammer in every way that Santiago had been a scalpel. His hands wrap around your neck, thumbs nestled under your chin as he drags himself out of you and shoves back inside as though he has no regard for your pleasure. But he does, _of course he does_ , because he shifts, angles his hips ever so slightly upward and slams into the hidden nerve that makes you howl. A soft touch dances up your calf, a slight pressure as Pope’s hand curls around your knee so he can watch Frankie disappear inside you. 

Frankie takes you. He _fucks_ you. He saturates the room with the obscene wet slapping sounds of your union. There’s no grace in it, his body insistent and powerful as he rips into you like he’s trying to tear you apart. His fingers interlace behind your head, firm presence at your throat—never so much that he cuts off your breath, but enough that the world around you fades away to nothing. All that exists are the warm hands around your neck, the cock shredding through your body, the violent slam of his hips against yours as you toss your head back, offering the line of your throat in a primal display of trust and submission. 

You surrender to him, hoist your knees like a white flag, let your legs fall open, and present to him like an animal in heat. He burrows beneath your humanity, past thought, stripping away all higher function until you’re little more than a blissed out tangle of nerve endings beneath him, rocketing toward ecstasy.

You cease to exist, floating and drifting through the clouds, distant masculine rumbles of awe vibrating through you as soft lips strike your skin like lightning. The bounds of your body have been flung to the edges of existence, and there’s absolutely nothing left but a haze of sensation, sublime and sacred.

You hear a voice from somewhere in the distance like pattering rain on a window. It sounds like your name, but you can’t be bothered. It could be the fucking angels calling you home and you wouldn’t want to budge from your position under Frankie, offering this beautiful sweet man everything you have and more. But then the pressure of his thumbs under your cheek increases and he forces your head to the side as his thrusts lull into a low roll.

Your eyes focus on the shape in front of them, and you blink as it materializes into Pope’s face. He’s nestled up to the two of you, propped up on one elbow. He studies you and as he reaches up, brushes a hand against your cheek, you realize you’ve been crying, weeping, shaking beneath Frankie. He wipes the tear from your cheek, “Hey—you okay, Boss?” 

You nod against his touch, voice leaving you in a sob, pleading, “Santi, he feels _so good_.” 

Pleading for exactly what, you couldn’t say.

“I know, honey, you’re doing amazing.” He interlaces his fingers with yours and dips his head to kiss the back of your hand. “Frankie?”

“I think I found heaven, man.” Frankie shudders, the shaking of his body throttling your neck just the smallest bit and you clench around him. 

“Yeah I know the feeling—” Santiago’s breath leaves him in a rasping exhale as Frankie starts up again, rutting into you, shocking your entire body back up the bed until you have to let go of his arm with your free hand and brace yourself against the headboard above you, arching back and pressing back down on him. “— _fucking gorgeous_.”

He could be talking about anything—you, Frankie, the two of you together, all of the above. It doesn’t matter. He reaches out again, swipes a thumb over your lips pausing briefly when your tongue darts out against him. 

“You got another one in you, honey?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” your voice leaves you in a high whine. You honestly don’t. You’re on fire, burning up and writhing and you’re impressed with yourself for finding words at all. 

“I believe in you,” he smiles, then releases your hand to brush a sweaty tendril of hair from Frankie’s forehead. “I bet Frankie can find it.” 

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” Frankie snarls, one hand letting go of you and reaching up to cover yours where it grips the slats of the headboard. The next swing of Frankie’s hips burrows so deep you swear you’ll feel him for the rest of your life. You hope you do. He fucks you like he’s trying to climb inside you, like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself behind, take a piece of you with him, like tomorrow he goes to his death and he’ll never get the chance again. 

The rumbling grows louder and louder, not thunder at all this time, but an earthquake tearing up from underneath until you’re vibrating with sensation, the pieces of you grinding and shifting and moving and becoming something new entirely as you shake apart under him. Someone’s chanting his name—you? Maybe—a litany of desperate syllables building into a deafening crescendo until there’s nothing left but a blinding white light and the start of all things. 

There’s shouting, not of fear though, but rapturous, crippling pleasure against your ear and then you’re buried, a heavy weight collapsing down on top of you, trapping you beneath the settling rubble of your aftershocks. Frankie’s head lands on your chest and he just breathes, a comfortable grounding weight as he slips out of you. Between your legs, his cum mixes with Pope’s as it leaks onto the clean sheets below your hips. A mess—you couldn’t care less. 

His breath is warm and comfortable as he releases your neck and wraps his arms around you, clutching you to him as he comes to. You let go of the headboard to bury your hand in his hair, twisting the soft waves between your fingers. He shivers as you tug against his scalp and turn your head to look over at Pope. 

Next to you, Santiago smiles, leaning over to plant a gentle kiss to your lips before pushing himself up from the bed. Frankie’s hand swipes out blindly fumbling for him, a strong grip wrapping around his bicep. Pope stills and Frankie lifts his head up just long enough to press his lips to Santiago’s, a soft whimper in the aftermath, barely audible but low and vibrating through both of your bodies. Pope’s lips curl upward softly, swiping his thumb along the stubble at Frankie’s jaw. 

“Rest, baby,” he whispers, “I’ll clean us up.” 

You feel the bed rise as Santiago stands, crosses the room to dig through a pile of boxes next to the bathroom. Frankie wraps his arms under you and rolls over, pulling you on top of his chest. You don’t have any bones left in your body to resist, nuzzling down into the soft wisps of chest hair smattering his pecs as his hands graze up your back. The sound of running water meets your ears at the same time Frankie buries his nose in your hair, a thick inhale, and a kiss pressed to the top of your head. 

“You back with us yet, Boss?”

You hum, a vague sound of affirmation, your mind still thick and slow like honey as you hook your arms under his shoulders and squeeze. At the edge of your consciousness, the mattress dips, a warm damp washcloth passing between your legs, then lower to Frankie, and then a wet _thwap_ as the rag lands with a sharp slap on the tiled floor in front of the sink. 

“Oh, so close man,” Frankie’s voice rumbles up from under you. “There goes your basketball scholarship”

“Get fucked,” Santiago snaps back, flopping down next to the both of you. He drags his knuckles down your face, then down Frankie’s bicep. You’re tired, so unbelievably fucking tired after everything, and you couldn’t be bothered with the boys’ bullshit if you’d been paid for it. 

“One step ahead of you.” 

“Never in your life.”

“Shut _the fuck up_ ,” you groan, and both men chuckle.

“She’s back.”

You drift in and out of consciousness, warm and sated, almost purring, curled on Frankie’s chest. Santiago’s hand rests warm at the small of your back, and you can never, ever recall being quite so comfortable, even as an ache starts to bloom between your legs. You’re not sure how long it’s been when Santiago breaks the silence again. 

“Hey Frankie, I have a question.” 

“Yeah?”

“You Catholic?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/624206215336083456/moving-day-pairing-santiago-garciafrankie).


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